


hush

by hikaie



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Deaf Character, Gen, Injury Recovery, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Permanent Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-05
Updated: 2018-01-05
Packaged: 2019-02-28 17:32:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13276437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hikaie/pseuds/hikaie
Summary: He’s covered in dust, bits of rock in his hair, and the whole right side of him is drenched in sweat and blood. Yondu has to whack him on the back a few times to help him clear his lungs, and then he’s yanking him up, tossing him over his shoulder.(Like when he’d been younger, passed out in the mess or cockpit or in some tucked-away corner, hauled off to bed like a sack of potatoes.)





	hush

**Author's Note:**

> My friend got me to watch GotG and GotG vol. 2 and _wewwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww_ is it right up my alley. There's so much potential for _angst!_ But instead of my usual whump-fest have some gentle father-son bonding/injury recovery/angst with a happy ending.

“Don’t move so much.” The woman tells Peter, and Yondu glares at her across his chest.

“Why th’hell you think we’re here?” He sneers at her. Peter is shifting in his seat, hands white knuckled on the hand rests. He’s looking between Yondu and the medic with abject terror and confusion. Later, Yondu will tack this down as one of the few moment he feels genuine pity for the boy.

The medic clucks her tongues. “It’s a simple enough procedure, if he’d be still.” She mutters an obscenity under her breath and Yondu reminds himself she needs to be conscious to install the prosthetics.

“Yondu?” Peter whispers, and the Centaurian lifts his eyes. The boy is pale, and sweating. His forehead is creased with discomfort. Yondu steeples his fingers and digs his nails into the flesh of his palm. He parts his lips, then thinks better of it and jerks his head to signal he’s heard him. “I’m sorry.”

“Ain’t nothing to be sorry for, boy.”

* * *

 

It was a simple enough mission on paper, but so many often were. Peter was really coming into himself- Terrans matured slowly, but he’d hit his stride as of late. He’d grown out of his wiry adolescence into a broad-shouldered, spitfire young man. It wore Yondu out and exhilarated him in equal measure. (Peter reminded him of himself: hotheaded with youth, ready for anything, a small dog ready to steal the bigger’s food and relish at the chance of a fight.)

And so it was that, “Don’t go until I say.” became a regular adage that Peter outright ignored. Yondu couldn’t count the number of times they’d gotten out of something by the skin of their teeth, bounty in hand, hearts pumping, and Peter inexorably laughing.

This time’s different. Peter’s rash but he’s not _all_ stupid- Yondu’d made damn sure of that. It’s not their fault. Dust floats in heavy clouds in the air and from time to time the rubble shifts as it settles. His boots send showers of pebbles raining down the incline- the entire wall on the right side is gone, blown out to smithereens. Smoke is billowing out from the floor above into the cold night air; the stench is acrid. There’s a small section of floor still left between one side of the room and the other, and Yondu is traversing it with care, eyes peering through the dust for any sign of the Terran.

“Peter?” He chokes, clears his throat and raises his shirt over his mouth. There’s a terrible rumbling sound and Yondu looks down as more of the mountain and building below give way. They hadn’t counted on explosives, or the building being so unstable. It’s not _their fault._ “Peter!”

Drywall crunches underfoot as he maneuvers over the debris on the opposite side of the room. A twisted grate is bent under the pressure of a caved-in wall, and a score of lockers have toppled over. As he steps over them carefully his shoes make hollow clunks that ring as loud as his heartbeat in his ears.

Then, to his left: the rubble shifts, less like a tremble and more like shudder. He hears a muffled groan.

“Pete!”

It takes him what feels like an hour to dig him out. He’s covered in dust, bits of rock in his hair, and the whole right side of him is drenched in sweat and blood. Yondu has to whack him on the back a few times to help him clear his lungs, and then he’s yanking him up, tossing him over his shoulder. ( _Like when he’d been younger, passed out in the mess or cockpit or in some tucked-away corner, hauled off to bed like a sack of potatoes.)_

They get out. Of course they do. They always make it out alive. But Peter’s not laughing, and Yondu feels bitter, rotten, and angry. He hadn’t felt fear in a long time- not since before Stakar. But it creeps in when he gets back to the ship and Peter remains unconscious. He shoulders off his pack- bounty and all- to Kraglin and leaves Peter to their healer. He can’t look at him.

The good news: the healer finds him an hour later, in the mess. The boy’s fine. Of course he is- he’s always been damn resilient, for a Terran. ( _More than that,_ his brain always reminds him, and he’ll scowl.) The bad news, and it’s hard even for Yondu to stomach, because they’ve all got copies of Peter’s music and he thinks half his damn crew knows them by heart.

“His hearing’s most likely shot, Captain.” Their healer tells him. He blinks his three eyes, both sets of eyelids slowly flickering. “Prob’ly for good. The blast alone would’a set ‘im back with such sensitive eardrums, but he got a nasty blow to the head- that’s where all that blood came from. A damn miracle he even made it.”

Yondu isn’t the one to tell him. He doesn’t even go see him for a few days, focused on delivering their bounty. It’s what he’s best at, Yondu- throwing himself into his work with tunnel vision intensity. They must be fifteen, twenty sectors difference from where they started before he sees Peter in the mess, pushing his food around his plate listlessly. He’s looked better- his hair’s been haphazardly shaved, the rest flopping over the edge of his bandages. There are deep bags under his eyes, and markedly more stubble on his cheeks. Yondu has seen him bounce back from broken limbs, cracked ribs, even concussions. He looks like he has a storm raging in him- Yondu can tell, hasn’t seen him look like that since he picked the boy up. It settles over Yondu like a chill.

* * *

 

The crew is oblivious, and that’s what he gets for having a hodge-podge group of dullards and criminals. They’ll say things to Peter and catch themselves, then gesture exaggeratedly to the point that Yondu’s had to break up three fights this week _alone_.

“Yer injured already, moron!” He shoves Peter away from him, out of the hold he’d had him locked in to pull him off the crewmate who had visibly laughed while making _some_ sort of lewd gesture. The Terran is breathing heavily and he rolls his shoulders, shrugging off Yondu’s touch. He glares at his captain but doesn’t raise a hand, just huffs and puffs and clenches his fists. His knuckles are split, again.

“Clean yerself up.” Yondu grunts, leering at Peter. The boy looks at the floor, seems on the cusp of talking back, then whirls around and stalks off.

* * *

 

It takes a couple months for the head injury to fully heal, and when it’s just a pink scar Peter evens out his hair and takes to sulking around the ship, a shadow of himself. No longer is he at Yondu and Kraglin’s elbow, hardly listening but eyes bright with interest. No longer is he first off the ship, last on, last to sleep. He rarely leaves his room except for communal mess, and hangs back on as many missions as he can unless Yondu forces him, needing his tech or steady hand. (Stealth had certainly gone out of the window for him.)

One morning he goes to wake Peter up and finds him in his bunk, curled up with his dusty headset and Walkman tucked close to his chest. The volume is up so loud Yondu’s sensitive ears can make out every word, but Peter is staring at the wall with a glassy expression.

Yondu nudges him with the toe of his boot.

Peter rolls over, snatching off his headphones. His face is red, and he shoves the Terran tech under his blankets. “What?” There’s an awkwardness to how he speaks, now- he sounds just the same, but he seems to chew on his words, and his eyebrows dip in discomfort. Yondu’s barely heard him say more than a brief sentence since he’d lost his hearing.

“Get dressed. I’m takin’ you planetside.” He tries to enunciate, and by the way Peter nods jerkily he seems to get the point.

* * *

 

That’s how they end up in Melba’s, Yondu shelling out an ungodly amount of credits for black market implants. They’re a bit dated, but they’ll do the job, and include a new language parser that adds a couple hundred languages on top of the cheap implant Yondu had bought the kid when he’d first started toting him around. There’s a dusty, dog eared manual that comes with them, highlighting all their bonus features. Yondu could care less about the additional languages, the respirator, or the miniature, built-in PLSS. It’s enough to see the way Peter’s eyes light up when Melba sits back with a sigh and exclaims, “Done.”

“Holy shit!” He sits up so fast Yondu has to jerk back, lest he be head butted. For all her earlier complaining, Melba looks smug. Peter raises his hands to his ears and covers them, takes his hands away, gingerly touches the implants. He makes a noise of surprise when he triggers the mask.

“Um-” He slaps at the implants less gently, slightly panicked, until the mask reels back and reveals his wincing, excited face.

“You’ll need to read this whole thing.” Melba dumps the dusty manual in his lap. “Learn how to service yourself. Your dad here is a stingy bastard and I know he won’t be shelling out for repairs.”

“He’s not-”

“I’m not-” Yondu scowls. “Well you’re the freak that don’t have anesthesia.” He grumbles, weakly.

“Uh huh.” She clucks her tongues, unimpressed. “Not denying the stingy part, ya see?” She jerks a thumb toward him and Yondu growls. Peter wraps his hands around the book, looking at it with wonder.

“Will they… are they permanent?”

Melba shrugs. “Dunno, kid. They’re old, and depends on a lot of factors. _Namely_ ,” And she leans in so threateningly that Yondu’s hand rushes to the hem of his cloak. She glances out of the corner of her eyes and laughs at him. “That you take care of them.”

“Okay.” Peter gulps and leans away, but he pulls the manual up against his torso and looks over at Yondu. “Uh. Th-”

“Don’t mention it.” He grunts. He lets the hem of his cloak fall and stands abruptly. “Nice doin’ business with ya.” He gestures for her tablet and she hands it over, eyes intense and following his every movement as he transfers over the second half of her payment. “Let’s go, boy.” Peter doesn’t need to be told twice.

It warms Yondu more than he’ll ever admit that Peter has a renewed pep to his step as they exit Melba’s shop. He _almost_ catches himself smiling. He’s silent as he watches him, hands fiddling over the spine of the manual, swaggering like his normal self. Melba had called him Peter’s _dad_ -

Peter catches his eye and grins. “What are you looking at?” He teases. Yondu has never been so fond of his smartass.

“About how many _jobs_ you’re gonna have to work to pay me back.” He throws an arm around Peter’s shoulder, sniggering at the Terran yelps and looks at him indignantly.

“What?!”

“Oh, you didn’t think that was for _free_ didja?” He leers at Peter and jostles him in his hold. “Oh yeah, I’ll say y’gotta a _looootta_ work cut out for ya.” They bicker all the way back to the ship, Peter hoarse and enraged, Yondu cackling and delighted.

He never does make him pay off the full amount.

**Author's Note:**

> As soon as I saw Peter's mask behind his ears I excitedly asked my friend if they were hearing aids and they said "if you want them to be" and I _do_ so here's my indulgent headcanon fic for it. And _no_ I don't want any critiques on how it'd fit into the canon.
> 
> (Also I myself am not a deaf/HoH person. I do not believe a deaf/HoH person needs hearing aids and believe that choice is up to them entirely. I do believe Peter would want them given how much he likes music. This was a headcanon that popped up to me. I also did not go into extreme detail with the injury/how it would work because I'm not absolutely sure this is my definitive headcanon for on why he would be deaf/HoH. If you would like to critique how I portrayed him being deaf at all I'm absolutely open to that and apologize if anything I wrote was hurtful!)


End file.
